


"you might like this."

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [21]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Best Friends, Exasperated Hazel Wong, F/F, Fluff, Romantic Letters, secret crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: Hazel and Amina orchestrate a plan. Daisy is confused.Canon Era.Written for the twenty-first prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Amina El Maghrabi/Daisy Wells
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	"you might like this."

Daisy Wells is an idiot.

Hazel Wong laments as much to me in our English class, where we are reading and reviewing Pride and Prejudice. Our teacher has left the room for a moment so we all naturally descended into chaos the moment the door shut.

“Why is Daisy an idiot?” I ask in a tone as neutral as possible.

Daisy and Hazel have this rather odd friendship where only they are allowed to insult the other. They walk around as if they are one person split into two separate bodies, whispering in serious tones as if government officials in the bodies of schoolgirls, scribbling in Hazel’s notebook that they keep on the desk between them in lessons, and finishing each other’s sentences as if they share a mind.

“She is in love and cannot seem to realise that she is,” replied Hazel in a matter-of-fact tone, gesturing to where the girl absent at a hockey tournament halfway across the country would usually sit. 

With a start, I am so instantly weighed down by the realisation that she is  _ in love  _ that I barely remember to reply. When she expressed no interest in anyone, I could kid myself that she liked me back. Now, though… she must be in love with one of those two boys that they are forever talking about their escapees with.

“Really?” I ask weakly, my voice wavering a little. “And does this person like her back?”

Hazel Wong, in case you are unaware, is a Deepdean student in the other Fifth Form dormitory. Her and I have bonded since the start of the year over both being incredibly different: her Chinese and me Egyptian. Despite our differences, I have come to quite adore her. She is short and stout, with a round face and long, glossy dark hair that she ties back in a plait. More often than not, she is daydreaming about solving crimes, Daisy, or a certain blond American she insists that she does not fancy.

“Obviously,” is her reply, accompanied by her sighing and dragging a hand through her hair. “However, both of the pair are absolute  _ idiots _ .”

I can barely summon it within myself to continue the conversation but I somehow manage it. “I think I know who it is.”

Hazel lights up, eyes bright and hopeful. “Really?”

“Of course, it’s the Indian boy coming to Egypt with us during the Winter holidays, no?”

In a curious turn of events, Hazel slams her head onto her desk. “Jesus  _ Christ _ !” she exclaims, throwing up her hands. She says nothing more, only continuing when everybody has looked away. “You idiot.”

“Pardon?”

Hazel leans over, her face very close to mine. “You idiot,” she repeats. “She likes  _ you _ . You like her. It is not rocket science. Not just a pash, not just a girlish fancy. You’re in love, drowning in it like the love hearts from shrimps Daisy drowns in on Valentines Day.

Then our teacher walks in and Hazel leans back over her work, diligently working over her questions on the symbolism of Pemberley as everybody else is bellowed at.

She acts, I realise for the first time, a little like Daisy.

“HAZEL!” Daisy shrieks at me, gallivanting down the stairs of the house and yelling all the way down the hall. “Look at this!”

I look up from my copy of  _ A Christmas Carol _ (I’m reading and walking up from Lit. Soc.) and, as if I don’t know, say, “Yes?”

“Look at this! It was just sitting on top of my tuckbox!” She raises up a box of chocolates, an envelope and three deep red roses tied to it with string. “Who do you think it could be?”

There is no name on anything, no sign of who gifted this utterly romantic collection to my best friend. All we have to go off is the letter, which reads:

_ Dear Daisy Wells, _

_ I adore you. There is something about you that I cannot stop staring at. _

_ It is perhaps your hair, your eyes, your enchanting accent. Or perhaps it is how I know that underneath all the finesse and pretty idiocy, you are a genius. _

_ To quote the book you so despise: “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” _

_ In regards to the other gifts included, they reminded me of you. Furthermore, **you might like this** : I shall tell you who I am over the Christmas holidays. _

_ Yours, an admirer. _

“How will they tell me who they are over the holidays? I am in Egypt, for goodness sake!”

“Maybe they do know that. Perhaps they’ll tell you in Egypt, send a letter?”

Daisy fixes me with a puzzled look, the one I am usually fixing her with. “Hazel Wong, are you in on this?”

I turn back to my letter from Alexander. “Of course not.”


End file.
